


With A Little Help From My Friends

by titC



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Angst, Claire Temple takes no bullshit, Fluff, Gen, Karen Page is So Done, Matt is a mess, Panic Attacks, The Defenders show up, flangst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 17:12:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16141760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/titC/pseuds/titC
Summary: Matt's friends (yes Matt, yourfriends) havehadit with his carelessness regarding his own well-being. This is the Reckoning ;-)





	With A Little Help From My Friends

**Author's Note:**

> Bible quote: Psalm 29:11  
> Thank you to [PixelByPixel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PixelByPixel) for the quick beta ♥  
> Yes, the title refers to the song (pick your version ;-)

Matt’s head is killing him. Not literally, but almost. He put earplugs in and pulled his hood down to muffle the noise, then he covered his nose and breathed through his mouth to try and block at least some smells; then he bundled himself in the oldest, softest bedsheets he owned and still – it isn’t enough.

He’s tried humming to cover what sounds made it through but he can't sustain it for long, and he wonders if some of the din isn’t coming from the inside of his head rather than the outside world.

He nearly falls from the bed when something – someone – tries to pull the fabric away from his face.

“Matt?” Foggy’s voice, muted but still recognizable and familiar.

He reaches out of his cocoon and removes the plugs from his ears. “Hi,” he whispers. It’s still too loud, and he grimaces.

“What, did you go on the mother of all benders last night? Or – oh, yeah. Of course.” Foggy’s fingers curl around his own, prod gently at his knuckles. “Matt…” A sigh. “I liked the idea of the bender better, you know.”

Matt grunts, then thinks maybe he should say something. “Didn’t need to come. M’fine.”

“Sure are. So, the gun sales at the docks, I guess? Heard about that.” Foggy’s voice grows fainter then closer again. The smell of antiseptic harsh in his nose, the crinkle of Band-Aids like trees on fire, butterfly stitches on his eyebrow pulling and stretching his skin. He is cold. “Idiot,” Foggy says. But his touch is careful and soft, his voice gentle and low. “When I got your message that you couldn't come tonight I wasn’t too worried, but then you didn’t answer when I asked if tomorrow would work. I figured I should come and check up on you. Guess I got a spidey sense about these things now, huh?”

“You don't want to know about it.” The pounding in his head is getting worse.

“I don’t want to learn one day you’ve ended up at the morgue, Matt. This is called _worrying for a friend_. It’s a thing people do.”

“M’a big boy.” Maybe he isn’t very convincing when he says that, but Matt couldn't care less at the moment. A high-pitched sound is rising in his ears but it probably is just in his head, or Foggy would have mentioned it.

“Sure. You do know you can ask for help, right? We can catch up over a beer any time, you do realize that?” Foggy’s voice is rising and distorting and it is like an ice-pick in the brain… “Matt?”

He can't hear him anymore. He can’t hear – anything. What – he flings out a hand, punches the air and there’s nothing, nothing until another hand catches his. Anchor, it is an anchor, and he can't let go. His breathing is picking up, faster, faster; he can't control it, he _c_ _a_ _n't_ , there isn’t enough oxygen or perhaps too much or or or he doesn’t know he can't hear a thing but his throat is burning and his lungs are on fire and his skin everywhere his skin is – and this constant screeching from the inside of his head, and it isn’t stopping and it isn’t stopping and it is _no_ _t_ –

One of his hand digs into the fabric, he knows, but the other is nice and warm and – held. There is, there’s something; he tries to focus on the sensation. Something dry and firm and known, something… A. It was an A. Then a T, then another T, then an M, and an A…

“Foggy?” he says. Hopes he says. Maybe he screamed, or maybe he just mouthed it. How could he know? He can't hear himself, he can't hear anything. Only that constant, shrill, nails on blackboard sound.

W H A T

“Can’t hear,” he (probably) says. His breathing is starting to slow down.

I   C A L L   C L A I R E

No, no, “no,” please, no, _don’t leave me alone_ , he wants to say. “It’ll pass.”

U S U A L ? Foggy puts more and more pressure in every letter and the dot is stabbed into his palm. Maybe he is really pissed at him? No, no maybe about it. He _is_.

“Happens. Hit n’the head.”

C O N C U S S I O N

Matt shrugs, or at least he thinks about shrugging. Maybe, maybe it is a concussion. Since Frank shot him in the head, or maybe since a building collapsed on him… days like this one happen. He doesn’t want Foggy to step away, he wants to keep touching him and smelling him; his presence familiar in a sea of terror. What if he stays – no, don’t think about that. It hasn’t happened yet.

Foggy takes his hand away from Matt’s but his weight doesn’t leave the bed, and Matt can still feel the pull of the indent Foggy’s body creates. He tries not to let himself roll down into it, because if he does he’ll just curl around Foggy and never let him go, not until his hearing comes back and the world stops hurting and everything is just… just… but he can't inflict that on him. He _wouldn’t_. Even if all there is now – that shrill silence, the silk that feels like sandpaper, the smells that are all too strong, too strong – it’s all too much.

He rolls down.

 

Time must have passed, he isn’t sure. All his (supposedly working) senses are still on the fritz, especially his hearing. Foggy spells a few words out on his palm from time to time and Matt only tries to keep breathing, one breath after the other. Inhale, exhale; try not to panic. He doesn’t know what Foggy is doing or why he is still here, but he _i_ _s_ and Matt is grateful. Not that he’d _say_ it but he can admit it, deep down inside his head.

B A C K   I N   5, and then there is warm ceramic in his hand. Honeyed tea, the tea’s tannins strong and overwhelming and the honey too sweet. Foggy has to help him drink, because Matt’s sense of his own body is all shot up too: up and down, left and right, where his head is and how to get the mug there… nothing works. He suspects he feels cold not because he is, but because it’s yet another sense that won’t work as it should.

C L A I R E, Foggy spells out a short time after that.

Matt recognizes her touch, her cold fingers and gentle care. They’re probably talking about him, and he can imagine what he can’t hear.

When she’s finished she pulls the silk sheet back over him and he grips it hard. If he doesn’t move, it doesn’t feel too much like thousands of tiny little hooks are trying to scratch his skin off.

There’s a tap on his back and he slips out a hand, palm up. S I N C E   W H E N

“Morning,” he says.

M A T T That’s Claire’s thinner finger.

“I don’t know. Since Frank shot me?” He wonders how he sounds. Too loud, too quiet? Rough, soft?

The mattress jerks. Someone isn’t happy with him. Well, he isn’t doing it on purpose, is he? And they’re _here_ , and he didn’t ask for them to come, but they’re still angry at him, but really – does he have a choice? Can he do nothing when he can do something? _C_ _an_ he? What do they expect of him, he doesn’t – he just, he just wants, he just – he hears them, the sirens, the cries for help and the gunshots; he smells the blood and he knows about what’s happening in his city, _his_ city, the people in it; he – it’s his home, they’re his home, he has to – he has to –

Someone keeping him flat on his back, B R pressure on his shoulders, and it A hurts; it hurts so much, it shouldn't, it doesn't H E mean to hurt but it does, his lungs B R burn and – and

B R E A T H E Oh – oh.

Something wet on his face, and maybe he screams, he can't tell. He can’t hear.

Whoever it is removes a hand from his shoulder and takes Matt’s, put it flat on their – his chest. It’s rock-hard and it’s moving, up and down, up and down. Breathe, breathe. He tries. He focuses and tries and follows.

The rhythmic pressure he’s been feeling for a while now, fast and uncontrollable and terrifying, slows down. His own heartbeat, he realizes.

The man lifts Matt’s hand from his torso and spells out, L U K E.

Oh. he must have come with Claire. Why are they coming, anyway? He only left Foggy a voicemail because he didn’t want to ask for help, he doesn’t _need_ help, he’d just planned on waiting it out as usual. He doesn’t want – I D I O T. Luke. A scratchy and familiar – scarf? falls on his face. “Jessica?” D U M B A S S

“Do you need…” A palm covers his mouth as if it – hah. To prevent him from talking. Fine.

Fine, he can stop talking. But why are they here? Do they need – does Jessica need a lawyer? He wants to ask but it’s not like he can help right now, is it?

There is a change in the air, as if someone just opened a window. He tilts his head a little to the left, a little to the right, trying to… _feel_ , something else. Chocolate – a sudden smell of chocolate, as if someone had opened a box right by his side. His bed jostles, and he starts to realize too many people are in the apartment now… are they all still here? If he can't be a lawyer or chase gun dealers or… 

K A R E N’S   C O O K I E S

Cookies? Karen? A paper plate is put in his hands, and he curls his fingers around the flimsy cardboard rim. It vibrates a little, he can feel his hand shaking and the cookie, cookies, echoing his trembling. Cool skin against his wrist, pushing down gently until the plate is flat on his lap. Someone prods at him until he’s sitting, his pillows rearranged behind him, and then he’s leaning against the wall. He wants to pull his hood down over his head, put on his glasses, hide his face and his eyes – Elektra always said his eyes were expressive. He doesn’t want anyone to see them, too many people here seeing him useless and

M I L K ?

Matt’s throat is burning, he reaches out and feels for his bedside table; he pats it down and can't find his glasses; where are they? Where did he leave them before going out as Daredevil? Where – he should get up, get up and out of bed and do, do something, do – 

The slight weight on his thighs disappears, and the mattress dips. 

L U K E   O U T   O N L Y   M E   N O W   C O O K I E S   O N   T A B L E

It’s Foggy, his suit’s soft wool easy to place. Maybe fabric isn't so itchy and scratchy and painful anymore? Matt’s not certain.

“Foggy,” he tries out. Forming the word is strange as if his mouth isn’t working right, as if his tongue is too thick. He still can't hear himself, but maybe the ringing has gone down a little? He isn’t sure. _Why_ , he tries to say. But he can't make his lips work at all.

Foggy leads his hand to the paper plate on the bedside table, to his glasses between the plate and the wall, then to a book. His Bible. He grabs it and sets its familiar weight on his knees, feeling the worn cover under his fingertips. He opens it and runs his fingers over the pages randomly. _Peace_ , he reads. _Peace_. 

_The_ _Lord_ _gives his people strength. The_ _Lord_ _blesses them with peace._

Wetness leaks from his eyes and his nose is clogged up and he’s crying, why is he crying? He tries to stop it, he squeezes his Bible harder and clenches his jaw but it doesn’t stop, he can't stop. Is he blessed with strength? He wants peace, he wants to be strong, he wants to use his strength for peace; but is he? Is he blessed? Is he one of the Lord’s people, even? 

Slight pressure on his shoulders, his back; a palm on his nape pushing his head down and – soft (damp) wool against his face, the new fancy aftershave Foggy can afford now, and still Foggy under it.

Matt twists his fingers in the fabric of Foggy’s suit, probably wrinkling it beyond wearability in court. He doesn’t care. What if he stays like that? What if he can never hear again, not at all, for the rest of his life? What if he becomes entirely useless, a burden and nothing else? What, then? Every time this happens, he wonders. What will he do if it becomes permanent, if it becomes his new normal – deaf and blind Matt Murdock, the lawyer who couldn’t law; Daredevil, the vigilante who won’t hear or see you coming? What _use_ would he be?

A faint vibration against his chest, puffs of air against his temple, the slow slide of Foggy’s hand on his back… he isn’t sure what to feel or even _how_ to feel, but maybe – maybe, he can stop, for a little while. Take a break from himself and just breathe and cry. Just for a little while.

 

Low murmurs welcome him back into the land of the living, or at least the awoken. Matt blinks into his perpetual… darkness, probably. He isn’t sure what dark is any more, to be honest; it has been too long since the accident. He tries not to remember _seeing_ things, because then all he remembers is his eyes burning, his father's face fading away. Fire eating everything up. At least now it isn’t the shrill silence of before, and his favorite hoodie isn’t trying to flay him alive and the cookies’s chocolate is welcome and not bitter. He’s alone in his bedroom, the door probably ajar – sounds muffled, but a few words still wafting to him from beyond it.

He realizes he’s still holding his Bible in a death grip, and he opens his fingers and puts it on the bedside table. He bumps into his glasses and considers putting them on, then finally decides not to and eats the cookies. They’re good, crumbling just right in his mouth. Something knitted and a bit scratchy ended up on the bed next to him and he picks it up. He recognizes it.

Maybe he can try and venture out now, figure out why there are a number of people in his apartment. He isn’t quite up to counting and distinguishing them all yet. He wraps a woolen blanket around himself on top of this hoodie and sweatpants, sets his socked feet on the wooden floor. 

_Here we go_ , he thinks, then promptly sits back down because everything is spinning.

“Fuck,” he says – and hears? He can hear himself again.

“Matt?” Foggy’s voice, clearer than before; he’s probably standing in the doorway.

“Hey, Foggy.”

“You’re better! That’s good.”

“Who…” Matt cleared his throat. “Who is out there?”

“Your friends.”

“My – Jessica, did she need a lawyer? Maybe I can – is Karen here? The cookies, and…”

Quick steps, then a finger poking hard at his chest. No more soft Foggy now, back to angry Foggy. Matt knows it’s his fault Foggy isn’t happy with him. “No one is here because they _need_ you. We’re here because we _care_ , Matt. Dammit, I thought we – I thought you were past that shit!”

“I…”

“Just… look, do you want to come out? Are you up to it?” He must look undecided, because Foggy goes on, “Danny ordered lots of food from fancy places and Jess brought booze but _you_ don’t get any; Luke will sit on you as per Claire’s orders if you try.”

“But…” Foggy sits next to him on the bed and Matt sort of slides into the dip he’s making. He wants to stay near him, so he says, “okay.”

Leaning a little on him, he shuffles into the main room, Foggy’s solid body helping him navigate all the unmoored things around him. Up is sideways and down won't stay down; but Foggy is still Foggy, always.

“Finally dragged yourself, out, didn’t you?”

“Um.” Foggy pushes him into a corner of the couch and a cool glass is thrust in his hand. Water. He clings to it.

“So you're better?”

“Um, yeah.”

“Anyone wants a beer? Not you Matt!” Danny’s voice is too loud even though he’s in the kitchen, and Matt winces.

“Sure,” Luke says from Matt’s side. He feels as strong and solid and dependable as ever. Luke makes him if not less fragile, at least less… exposed, perhaps. Firm, quick steps go to his room and back out.

“Finally can get my scarf back.”

“You left it there, Jess.”

“Whoa, I know I’m not _nice_ , but I wasn’t going to pry it away from Helen Keller here.”

“Hey,” Matt says.

“What?”

He thinks for a minute. “It’s scratchy anyway.”

“Well, what did you expect from _her_ scarf?” Luke says. Matt feels vindicated.

The front door opens and closes, and light footsteps bring someone to stand in front of him.

“You had everyone worried,” Karen says.

“I…”

“Got a couple beers and some food up, Frank says he won’t come down from the roof as long as there’s, I quote, a crowd of do-gooders down here.” A few chuckles around. “He also says he’s finishing the job tonight, and he promises not to kill anyone. Not kill them too much, at least.” 

Oh. Matt waves at the ceiling. “Hi, Frank.”

“See? You’re not the only one who can punch people in the face,” Foggy says. “Not that it’s always a good idea. As a lawyer should know.”

Another paper plate is thrust between his hands – it’s a slice of warm, spicy pumpkin pie. He picks it up. “Thank you,” he says.

“Luke made it, I suck at food,” Claire says. She’s got a good catch here, better than Matt himself could have ever been. 

“It’s good. Your cookies too, Karen.” What are they doing here? What is he doing here, what is he supposed to _say_? He thanked them, and they’re still here, bringing him food and saying they can do what he does too… is it to say that he’s not needed? That he’s useless, now that they know he gets these spells? He pokes at the remaining half of his pie.

“Why do you look so surprised? I’ve cooked for you two before,” Karen says. She sounds like she’s smiling, happy. Joking, he assumes.

“Yeah, but not cookies,” he says. Does he look surprised? Maybe. Does he feel surprised? Yeah, but… “I’m not surprised because of the cookies, you know.” He munches on the pie so no one asks him anything.

“You do understand why we’re all here, right?” Foggy’s moved behind the couch and is leaning over the back to speak in his ear. Matt doesn’t know what to answer, and so he keeps at the pie, taking the tiniest bites he can. He’s not sure what he’ll do when he’s finished with it.

He can hear low voices in the kitchen, the clink of a blade on wood, the soft thump of… vegetables? falling on the chopping board, the smell of… fruit. He’s not entirely sure which kind yet, but he’s getting there.

“Maybe you all came because I have the best kitchen knives,” he says.

“Colleen definitely approves of them, yeah. She’s so far refused to let anyone cut anything, and she’s freaky fast with them. Guess sharp pointy stuff is her thing, eh? Claire is still ready with Band-Aids, though. She must be in need of some nurse action, what with Luke being Luke.”

Matt smiles a little. It seems most of them are away from him now, it’s just Matt and Karen and Foggy, telling him about what he can’t see. “I’m fine, you know.”

“Yep, totally fine. As exemplified by what just happened.”

“It would have gotten better on its own.”

“Because it’s all routine, of course,” Karen says tersely. He can almost hear her teeth grinding.

“Oh yes it is, and something he’s always afraid will not pass, too.” Fuck, he said that out loud. Foggy heard.

“Is this an _intervention_?” He doesn’t need one of those.

“No it’s not. It’s concerned friends who want to show you you’re not alone, Matt. Just like when you put on your mask and decide to go help people by doing what you do, but just to help _you_. Can you understand that?”

“You don’t need to worry about me, really. I – ”

“Matt, not only do you go out to dish out some fists of righteous vigilante justice according to one Matt Murdock, you even forget you’re a regular human being. You’re not particularly hard to kill or quick to heal or anything like that. Remember the time you got shot in the head? Or that time I found you mostly dead and bleeding out on your floor?” 

“Or staying behind under a collapsing building,” Karen adds.

“But I…” He _can_ heal a bit faster, right? And he _does_ have very good senses, yes? Somehow, though, Matt thinks it’s not going to cut it as an defense. He’s a lawyer, he knows these things.

“You have no sense of self-preservation. Throwing your life away won’t help anyone; you’re not Jesus, Matt.”

“I don’t feel – why do you even think…”

“You already had a headache today before you went out, right?”

“But I’d heard about the drug deal and – ”

A gust of air from Karen; she probably threw her hand up in the air. Her footsteps go tap-tap on the floorboard, off to the kitchen. “Pointless,” he hears her mutter. “Men!” 

Then it sounds like a herd of fruit-salad-carrying elephants are migrating from his apartment to the roof, and Matt feels both abandoned and relieved. “Frank won’t like that,” he says.

“Probably not.”

“I’m not throwing my life away, Foggy.”

“Well, you certainly like playing martyr. No one wants you to die for them, Matt. No one.”

“I’m not trying to – ”

“Could’ve fooled us, the way you’re going. You risked serious, long-lasting harm going out yesterday.”

“But who – ” 

The front door opens and closes. “Red’s a stubborn SOB. You’ll never get through his skull. I tried, didn’t work.”

“You shot me in the head.”

“Yeah. S’what I said.” Tramping steps, the fridge door opening, the clink of a beer bottle cap on the counter. “Heard you were an ass again, Red.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“Yeah, well. At least _I_ know to ask for help.”

“You ask _Karen_. You threaten other people.” Frank chuckles. “That’s not funny.”

“Kinda.”

“Matt, you can’t go on like that and even _Frank Castle_ agrees. That's probably not a good sign.”

“Fine, you’re right. Can’t be a lawyer if I can’t hear on top of being blind, I guess.”

“Fuck you, Matt.” Foggy’s furious, somehow. Why, isn’t he agreeing with him?

“Red, you're even more of a fucking idiot than I thought.”

“But…”

“While I’m glad you’ve stopped the ‘I’m useless as a lawyer, better stick to ninja-ing bad guys in the shadows’ bullshit, you still don’t get that other people care. That you’re worth more than Daredevil or a lawyer. Aren’t you supposed to value all life or something? Even yours?”

“Choirboy’s forgotten the teachings, looks like.”

“I go out because I value life, and you know it.” His head starts throbbing again.

“You started to really lose it when your old teacher and Elektra came back.” Lose it? Lose what? What was Foggy talking about? “And then she died.”

“Yeah, I remember that. She was a good fighter too. I’m sorry, Red.”

“She could still be alive.”

“Matt…”

“She didn’t stay dead the first time. You don’t know it, you _don’t_ ; no one knows. She was with me and I'm here, right?”

“Yeah, but everyone said she came back wrong. That she wasn't quite right. That you were clinging to a memory.”

“You weren’t there, I was there, I was with her, it was _her_ , she…” Matt stops before they can hear his breath stutter, but he’s not hopeful he fooled them. Frank’s hard body and Foggy’s softer one bracket him, and he thinks he should feel safe. He wants to.

“You never really grieved her, did you? You buried her, then pretended to forget any of it happened, and that was that. It ate you up and you refused to look at it.”

“I’m blind.”

“I swear to God Matt – ”

“Man, you’re even worse at this than I am.”

Foggy huffs a little. “He really is. Guess the manipulative old jerk that screwed both you and Elektra over didn’t help.”

“Stick wasn’t that bad.”

“Stockholm Syndrome, Red?”

“Fuck you both.” That’s it, he’s done, he can’t do it anymore, whatever it is. Matt stands up but he forgets the coffee table and and he falls forward, on – someone, a hard someone; and they’re gripping his arms tight – too tight – Matt starts struggling, he wants – he needs to be free; they have no right, none of them! They have no right to hold him prisoner, not here, in his place, his home; they invaded it and he tries to punch, to kick and to knee and to scratch and elbow and he rears his head back but then two hands catch him – 

“No head-butting while you’re still not recovered, Matt. Preferably none at all, but baby steps.” It’s Foggy’s cool hands on his brow. Matt shakes his head. “Stop it,” Foggy says. He hates that they can restrain him, that he’s still so weak, that he feels so powerless he can’t get free. He hates he didn’t remember the table and he hates that he can try however hard he wants; Frank – it’s Frank, he knows – can take it all and not give a damn.

“Leave me alone,” he says.

“No.” 

Matt tries to escape one last time.

“Matt, you can’t be trusted on your own.”

“I’m not a child.”

“You got knocked on the head hard enough to do serious damage, and you are not recovered.”

“You know, my boy Frank Jr, he hated it, yeah? He hated it, any time he actually needed help. Just like you. But then, he was eight.”

Matt lets himself slump forward. “M’not eight.”

“No you’re not. Hence, you know. The you being an idiot thing.”

Matt feels his throat constrict, he’s almost choking. Frank, Frank lost everything and he kept going, he never let anything stop him until he’d reached his goal; and Matt? Matt’s being useless, sitting here feeling sorry for himself.

The grip on his biceps loosens, and Frank guides him down on the couch again. “Hey, Red. Don’t go all sad on me, yeah?”

“Claire said you’d be feeling out of whack physically, but probably also, you know.”

“I’m – ”

“Shut up, choirboy. You're a mess, you look like you went ten rounds with a tank and cried yourself to sleep for a month.”

“Well I can’t tell what I look like, can I? I’ll just take your word for it.”

“You do that.”

Matt tries to breathe through his nose, to calm his heart-rate, to just… slow down; but it’s hard. He doesn’t have much control over anything, not even his body – and he’s used to being in control of it. It’s not obeying, and he hates its betrayal. _Hates_ it.

“I’m sorry,” he finally says.

“What for?”

He shrugs. “I hit you.”

“Like a tired kitten,” Frank says.

Matt huffs, but smiles a little. He reaches out and find Foggy’s thigh, pats it. “I just, I don’t want you to worry.”

“I know. I wish you’d accept it.”

“I’m trying.”

“I know.” Foggy’s hand covers his. “Father Lantom, he says he’s got a friend he’d like you to meet.”

“A friend?”

“You never had any help, did you?”

“You’re here.”

“Not that kind.”

Matt rubs his hands over his face, feels his skin catch on his days-old beard, hears the rasp of every hair. “I can’t really… talk to anyone.”

“What about when you were a kid, Matt? What about – what about all that shit that happened to you?” 

“No one could have given me my eyes back. Or my dad.”

“Fuck you’re dumb sometimes. You know what, Red? A buddy of mine, that’s his job: he helps vets. He’s saved more than he hasn’t. There’s no shame in it.”

“And you go see a shrink yourself, Frank?”

“That’s for me to know and you to wonder about.” There’s the thump of a beer bottle on the floor, then the cushions move as Frank stands up. “Got a drug dealer to bust, yeah? See you around,” he says. 

“He doesn’t,” Foggy says once they can’t hear Frank’s footsteps anymore. “I mean, can you imagine? They wouldn’t be able to focus on anything he’d say, he’s terrifying.”

“And I’m not?”

“Well it’s a good thing you’re not, Matt.”

Maybe. Probably. Fine, Foggy’s right, it’s a good thing. “My dad,” Matt starts. “He said… I heard him once, I don’t think he knew I heard him – he told someone that he couldn’t afford that kind of help for me. He asked for money, and whoever it was – they said no.”

“Matt…”

“And then I was at the orphanage, and the nuns… they believe in God, not Freud, you know?”

“It’s not all about Freud, but yeah. Marci sees someone, you know? She says it helps, whatever it is they do – it helps. And it doesn’t hurt to try, at least.”

“Marci?”

“Yeah. I know, I was surprised too, but it shouldn’t be surprising.”

“Huh.” Matt lets the idea trickle in his mind.

“Your priest knows you well, and your needs too. He might help you find someone who could be good for you.”

Matt opens his mouth, but he can’t get words out. He doesn’t even know what words he wants to say, and so he closes it again.

“Promise you’ll try?”

He nods, and means it. He can try. He knows he can’t go on indefinitely like this, and more than that he knows he’s hurting more than himself and it’s not what they deserve or what he wants. They’re not asking him to stop, he realizes. It’s not all or nothing.

And then he knows what to say. “Thank you.”

The words are choked out and sound wet, but Matt feels lighter all of a sudden. Something else got out along with them. “Thank you.”

 


End file.
